Dearest Brother
by Thrice Written
Summary: Alfred had a happy, wholesome childhood, raised by his older brother, Arthur, after their parents passed away. However, a series of scarring incidents opens his eyes to reality, where he learns that no child should ever take protection for granted.
1. questions

**Dearest Brother**

UK x US

Prussia x US

**R18**

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

A WARNING – this one deals with pedophilia and sexual predators (and not in a cracky way, either), with an overall emotionally/psychologically dark atmosphere. If this topic is a little too sensitive for you, I suggest you go read one of my other stories instead.

I wrote this because I wanted to provide a serious outlook on the aforementioned subjects. So far, all the ones that I've read that deal with this particular topic are either cracky, far-fetched, or just generally . . . not deep. Since I couldn't find one that was to my satisfaction, I started this fanfic.

If you've read the above warning, then don't flame. I admit that I've never been a victim and that I'm not religious, so I apologize if I get some of this wrong. If there's something that particularly bothers you, PM me and I'll take it into consideration.

(Oh, and this story also contains incest. It's UKUS, with Arthur as the older brother and Alfred as the younger one.)

-x-x-x-

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><p><em>the first chapter<em>

**questions**

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><p>"Do you know who God is, Alfred?"<p>

The boy looked up at his older brother, puzzled by this sudden question. Arthur was watching him closely from where he was embroidering in his armchair. His slender hands had stilled in their needlework — the needle poised in midair, a single thread of delicate, shimmering gold trailing from it like an afterthought — and his minty green eyes shone expectantly as he waited for Alfred to say something. The fire in the fireplace, which had been lit to keep away the winter chill, flickered and sent shadows and light soaring across the walls of the old living room.

Somewhat at a loss, Alfred fiddled with the wooden toy soldiers he was playing with and tried to think of a good answer. An answer that would make Arthur proud of him. "God . . . ," he said hesitantly, shifting from where he had been kneeling on the thick carpet. "God watches over us. He keeps us safe and we pray to Him . . ."

"Go on."

"Um . . ." Alfred glanced down at the soldiers in his hands. Arthur had said they were custom-made, but he had never named the toy store he had ordered them from, and the paint appeared to have been applied by a rather clumsy hand. Alfred had guessed that the person who'd assembled them probably didn't make many toys. But the wood was carefully sanded, the miniature muskets carved and polished with great attention to detail, and best of all, each soldier had been given a distinctly different face. Some were round and cheerful, while others sported pointy features and grouchy-looking eyes. Even now, nearly three years after they'd been delivered, the soldiers were cherished among Alfred's favorite toys.

Sometimes he still wondered where they had come from, but he didn't feel like he _had_ to know anymore. He was happy with what he had. He was happy having lots of toys and living with Arthur in the large, ancient Victorian house their parents had left them in their wills. He liked being homeschooled by his older brother; he liked curling up next to him in the warm bed they shared and listening to him read from a storybook. He even liked eating the food Arthur cooked, even though it tasted kind of funny. He didn't mind not having many friends.

No, Alfred was fine with what he had now. There was no need to pry further into the comforts of his life, because it was already as perfect as his ten-year-old self wanted it to be.

"Alfred?" Arthur's voice drew him gently back to the present.

"Huh? Oh!" He was supposed to be answering Arthur's question. "Umm . . . God forgives us if we do something bad." He began to gain momentum as he recalled bits and pieces of Arthur's lessons on religion. "He lives in Heaven, and He made the earth and the animals and stuff in six days, and He also made humans — Adam first, then Eve. He has lots of names. And He's . . . He's . . ." Alfred struggled to remember the word Arthur had used to describe God when they had been talking about Him. "He's . . . _righteous_." He looked up at Arthur with pride. "Right?"

This, for some reason, drew a chuckle out of Arthur. "So you _do_ pay attention when I give a lesson." He went back to the shirt he had been embroidering, weaving the gold thread in and out of the hem with fast, skillful flicks of his wrist.

"Of course I do! I just have trouble remembering everything we talk about," said Alfred, pouting, then broke into giggles himself. He rearranged the toy soldiers into what he thought was an impressive battle formation. He didn't think to ask Arthur why he had asked about God in the first place, but Arthur followed with an explanation anyway.

"What I want you to learn from everything that I've told you is that God's nature is essentially benevolent," he said. Confused by the complex vocabulary, Alfred looked up again. Arthur caught his bewildered expression. "Ah, it means that God is good."

"Oh. Okay." Alfred returned to his toys, but he was still listening. Arthur was boring and naggy sometimes; the things he talked about, however, could be interesting at times, and Alfred made sure to listen with at least one ear.

Arthur continued, "You said before that God forgives us if we 'do something bad' . . . which is true. He _does_ forgive us when we sin, because He knows we are not perfect despite the fact that He made us in His image. But —" He paused. "That does not mean that we _should_ sin. Do you understand, Alfred?" This time, when he stopped, he was looking for confirmation on Alfred's part.

Alfred nodded.

"Do you understand _why_ we shouldn't sin?"

"Because . . . it's bad?"

Arthur sighed. He didn't sound exasperated, though, when he said, "Yes. This is the wisdom I want to share with you today, Alfred, so listen carefully.

"God will forgive us if we sin. If we cheat, if we steal, if we lie — even if we take the life of another person. God loves everyone . . . each and every single one of us, from the youngest baby to the most withered old man. But God doesn't admit sinners to his Kingdom, so sinners go to another place when their time comes . . . a place called Hell, where they face eternal damnation. That is where they deserve to be. Sinners who repent their sins before they die are forgiven and saved; sinners who turn on God and turn on what is right are condemned forever." His tone made Alfred jerk his head up. He met Arthur's eyes, which were solemn and focused, and had to suppress a shiver at the intensity within them. He was now sure without a doubt that sinning was _very bad_, especially since Arthur had taken the time to put so much emphasis on his point.

In one smooth motion, Arthur set aside the shirt and kneeled down in front of Alfred. He raised the boy's chin tenderly with both hands to keep the eye contact between them unbroken. "But, Alfred," he said softly, "God isn't the only one who won't forgive you for not repenting. You yourself will come to hate and fear who you are as well, and in a way, that matters more than what God does to you. A person can be far harsher in their self-punishment than God will ever be toward them; after all, you are the one who has to live with _you_. Does that make sense, Alfred? Do you understand me?"

In truth, Alfred had only understood perhaps three-forths of Arthur's lecture. But nonetheless, the message had come across very clearly, and it continued to resonate inside his head after Arthur stopped speaking. "Y-yes, I think I do," he managed shakily, his mind echoing. _Sinning is bad because God doesn't like it and because it'll make you hate yourself . . ._ His nerves felt as if they'd been rubbed raw. Arthur had never displayed such seriousness in any of their conversations before.

Eyes finally softening, Arthur leaned forward and pressed a warm kiss to Alfred's forehead. "I knew that you would grow up to be clever," he murmured. "This is a lot to digest at once, especially for a child of your age . . . but you've handled it very well. I'm proud of you, Alfred. I'm sure Mother and Father would have been as well."

Alfred glowed, his cheeks flushing with happiness. His previous discomfort was forgotten in the face of Arthur's praise.

Drawing his hands away from the boy, Arthur stood up. He stretched, bending his waist backward and wincing slightly, before offering his little brother a hand. "Well, let's go to bed, shall we? I can hear your volume of fairy tales calling to us." He winked at the youth, who was instantly beaming with boyish enthusiasm.

"Yay! I want to hear _that_ story tonight — the one about the dragon and his treasure!" Alfred scrambled to his feet with Arthur's help, and ran ahead to the staircase just outside the living room. He waited for Arthur to douse the fire in the fireplace and follow him, then raced up the stairs with him. He won, like always, and Arthur accepted defeat with a gracious smile.

He was the perfect guardian, despite being just on the waning side of eighteen, and he adored his brother. He was _devoted_ to his brother. When it came to Alfred, it was impossible to fault him in any way, shape, or form.

He just wasn't perfect as a person.


	2. two roses and a thorn

_the second chapter_

**two roses and a thorn**

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><p>When Alfred and Arthur's parents passed away, Arthur dropped out of high school, took on a second part-time job in addition to his first one (their inheritance wouldn't last forever, after all), and begged their European neighbors — Roderich Edelstein, a refined piano teacher, and his pretty wife, Elizaveta — to babysit Alfred while he was away. Elizaveta had taken pity on the two children (to most people, they were both indeed still children, with Alfred barely seven and Arthur on the cusp of sixteen). Perhaps it was because she had always wanted a child, a desire that hurt her deeply after the doctor told her she could never have children of her own, or because she had found Alfred so endearing and sweet. Either way . . . she had said <em>yes, yes I will look after Alfred<em> and refused any payment that Arthur tried to offer her. And the two families had been linked ever since.

In the three years since, Alfred had grown close to the Edelsteins. The beginning had been kind of scary; he was wary of Elizaveta's energetic kindness and somewhat intimidated by Mr. Edelstein (it was always "Mr. Edelstein," never "Roderich") and his antisocial behavior. No matter how hard Elizaveta tried to soothe him the first week, Alfred had cried constantly, a burning ache smoldering in his chest from missing Arthur so much. Never in his life had he been left somewhere without at least part of his family with him — his mother, his father, Arthur, or even one of their annoying cousins like Collin or James. And plus, Elizaveta was a _girl_. Girls were weird.

Then there came the day that Elizaveta looked at where he was curled up on the plush sofa, sniffling, and called abruptly to Mr. Edelstein, "Roddy! Play us a good dancing song!" When the first strains of a graceful Beethoven piece floated into the room, Elizaveta took Alfred's hands, guided him off the sofa, and began to waltz with him.

Alfred had been both surprised and uncertain. _What's the crazy lady doing now?_ he'd wondered. His head barely came up to her shoulder, and the way she swept him about was making him stumble into her and trip over his own feet. She kept smiling at him as if encouraging him to keep up. After being towed around the room a few times, Alfred finally gave in and began attempting to match his steps to hers. She didn't seem to mind when he accidentally trampled her toes or when he lost his balance and nearly knocked her over; instead, she just patiently helped him regain his feet and keep going. Soon, all of the steps seemed to flow into place . . . and Alfred found himself really _dancing_.

Before he knew it, the last piano notes had trickled into nothing, leaving them standing in silence. Elizaveta let go and curtsied, her eyes twinkling, and said with playful seriousness, "Thank you for the dance, kind sir. May I have another?"

Feeling somewhat out of breath, Alfred considered it. His seven-year-old sensibilities resurfaced, but this time in a different way. "But that dance is _boring_."

"So you don't like to waltz? Hmm . . . oh, I know! Why don't we try a tango instead?" Elizaveta hurried over to the small table off to the side, which had something covered in cloth on top of it. She lifted the fabric with a flourish.

"What's that?" asked the young boy curiously, eyeing the strange-looking contraption.

Elizaveta grinned. "It's called a phonograph. It plays music using _these_." She held up a large, shiny black thing that looked like a dinner plate with a hole in the middle of it. "This is a record. Here — watch." Placing the record in the phonograph, she fiddled around with a few things that Alfred couldn't see from where he was, and when she stepped back, music blared forth into the room. The song had a saucy, straightforward beat that immediately made Alfred want to start moving again. So this time, when Elizaveta grabbed his hands, he went along willingly.

Needless to say, Arthur was quite surprised when he came to pick Alfred up that afternoon. The sweaty, frolicking duo quickly dragged him inside, Elizaveta waving aside his protests, and soon the three of them were prancing and sliding and kicking up their heels and laughing like there was no tomorrow.

The joy fro that day remained one of Alfred's — and Arthur's — more vivid memories. And from then on, Alfred wasn't afraid of going over to the Edelsteins' anymore.

Sometimes, though, a strange man came to visit while Alfred was there. He was lanky and wiry, and he terrified Alfred with his dark red eyes, numerous piercings, and throaty, raspy laugh. Whenever the man dropped by, Elizaveta would get angry at little things, and Mr. Edelstein would shut himself in his study for the whole day. Alfred didn't understand why they didn't just tell the man to stop bothering them and go away. But he did see the man and Elizaveta kiss once in the kitchen while he was going to get a glass of water, while Mr. Edelstein wasn't home, and the man's silvery hair had been glowing white under the ceiling lights . . .

Alfred didn't really know what to think. It felt too complicated for him; he didn't know anything about kissing and what it meant. Feeling vaguely uneasy, he had quickly escaped upstairs and tried to figure out what to do about what he had just seen. In the end, he decided to put it out of his mind, and when Arthur asked him about the Edelsteins, Alfred didn't mention the man. He didn't say anything in front of Elizaveta or Mr. Edelstein, either.

Maybe if he didn't talk about it, then it would be like it'd never happened at all.


	3. touching

_the third chapter_

**touching**

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><p>Arthur wouldn't get up the next morning.<p>

"Arthur? Arthur! Wake up — you're going to be late for work!" Alfred, who was already fully dressed, pounced onto the bed they shared and shook his older brother's shoulder. "C'mon, Arthur!"

Muttering something unintelligible, Arthur rolled over and burrowed into the comforter.

Exasperated, Alfred scrambled over Arthur's body and, straddling him, tugged the bedclothes away from the latter's head, exposing his mussed blond hair and pale face. "ARTHUR!" he said loudly. Arthur slowly opened one dull, sleep-smeared eye, then closed it again without doing anything else. His breathing deepened as he went back to slumbering, apparently unconcerned about keeping his schedule.

"No! Arthur, get up already!" whined Alfred, bouncing on his knees to emphasize his point. Arthur let out a small _umph!_ as the healthy ten-year-old boy dropped down on his side like a sack of bricks. This failed to satisfy Alfred, however, and when he saw that his older brother was still stubbornly clinging to sleep, he prepared to throw his weight on him again. As he was raising himself up, his hands braced on Arthur's ribcage, his knee grazed against something hard.

At first he thought it was just the waistband of Arthur's sweatpants or his bony hip. What else could it be? But when he pressed his leg to it again, Arthur jerked beneath him and let out a sound Alfred had never heard before. It was a cross between a squeak and a sort of low hitching noise in the back of his throat. Funnily enough, Arthur's voice didn't sound quite as sleepy and smudged as it had a minute ago, and Alfred noted the change with a bit of surprised glee. Experimentally, he tapped the inside of his thigh against the bump under the covers, this time aiming for it on purpose. Arthur made that weird sound again — a bit louder this time — and shifted under Alfred.

Encouraged that he was on the right track to waking Arthur up, Alfred reached down and gripped his find.

Arthur's eyelids snapped open, his head whipping around so that his bright green eyes met the boy's startled blue ones. Two sets of colored irises, each inherited from a different parent, crossed gazes in midair with the same alarm flashing through both of them. The older brother gave a sudden, violent buck, and — dislodged from his perch — Alfred found himself tumbling to the other side of the bed in a tangled cocoon of blankets. His startled yelp was swallowed up by the comforter. He could hear muffled rustling and the creak of mattress springs as Arthur bolted off the bed, and clawed his way clear of the sheets to look bewilderedly up at him. The young man had his back braced against the wall and a pillow clutched across his waist, a hundred emotions vying for control over his features.

"Arthur — ?" Alfred started tentatively.

He was cut off with a harshness that made him flinch. "Don't. Just . . . just don't, Alfred, all right?" Arthur took a shaky breath. "Don't do that. Don't ever do that again."

"But what did I do?" asked Alfred, feeling his mouth tremble. He'd made Arthur mad . . . which meant that whatever he'd done must have been really bad, because Arthur rarely got upset at him. Did he hurt Arthur by accident?

"You can't — you're not supposed to —" Shaking his head in frustration, Arthur tightened his hands on the pillow. "Alfred, you shouldn't just . . . _touch_ someone like that. Our bodies are private to ourselves; they're not meant to be handled by others on a whim. Touching someone without permission like you did is . . . is rude and offensive, and it makes the person being touched extremely uncomfortable. So please don't do it again in the future."

Alfred didn't understand at all. Didn't they touch each other all the time, when they were hugging and playing games and things like that? Didn't Arthur just kiss him on the forehead last night? "I'm . . . I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice quavering. He could feel his eyes tearing up. He didn't want Arthur to be angry at him.

Seeing the expression on his younger brother's face, Arthur bit his lip. "Don't cry, Alfred." He sounded more gentle now. "It was an understandable mistake. It's fine as long as it doesn't happen again. Just — just try to be aware of other people's personal space from now on, all right, poppet?" he finished awkwardly. Alfred nodded, feeling ashamed. He wondered what part of Arthur's body he'd touched had made Arthur feel so uncomfortable, but couldn't bring himself to ask after everything that had transpired. He murmured another unhappy "I'm sorry" and buried his face in a blanket.

Sighing, Arthur glanced at the clock hanging over the door. "Ah, I really should be leaving soon. I'm going to be late." He hesitated a moment, then leaned over and pulled Alfred into a soft embrace. "Thank you for trying to wake me up in time. I appreciate it. Make sure to lock up before you head over to the Edelsteins' house — I'll do my best to come pick you up by four. And say hello to Elizaveta for me, love, won't you?" He let go and headed into the bathroom down the hall, the door closing behind him. Alfred listened to the sound of water running in the sink and didn't move from the bed.

Arthur had drawn boundaries, invisible lines, _limits_ between them in places where there had never been any, and they felt rigid and unfamiliar. Did Arthur no longer trust him? The thought left Alfred feeling lost and distressed. It felt like he had done something forbidden by touching Arthur, something irreversible, and he had no idea how to make everything right again. Heart aching, he wished he was older. Older people always seemed to know what to do.


	4. smoke

_the fourth chapter_

**smoke**

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><p>It was cold out that morning; an icy breeze made Alfred clutch his coat tighter around himself, and he watched his breath huff out in a white cloud as he shut the door and shuffled over to the Edelsteins' as fast as he could. He still felt misplaced and confused. Arthur had grabbed his bike and left in a rush a few minutes earlier, and Alfred knew intuitively that it wasn't just because his older brother was running late. It was because of what had happened.<p>

_He's really mad at me_, he thought, hunching forward slightly as he stepped away from the sidewalk. _He doesn't want to deal with me because it was my fault and he doesn't like me anymore._ The thought made his eyes water, but he held back his tears. He was a big boy. Big boys didn't cry. Then again, big boys didn't do stupid things like touch their older brothers when it was wrong, either.

Big boys knew better.

Alfred unlatched the gate, walked through it, and let it swing shut behind him. He carefully picked his way to the front door, raising his hand to knock on the pristine white wood. Once Elizaveta heard him, she would come out, give him a generous, daisy-scented hug, and pull him inside for some of the sweet pastries that Mr. Edelstein's German friend always brought over. Alfred had only met Ludwig once — and he'd been really intimidated by his stern blue eyes and towering form and stiff military posture — but he thought he was kind enough. He liked how Ludwig had treated him as an equal instead of just a ten-year-old kid who didn't know anything, and after spending some time with him, Alfred pretty much forgot to be scared of the man.

The door swung open before Alfred's knuckles had the chance to make contact, and the boy looked up, expecting to see Elizaveta's pretty, motherly face.

Except it wasn't Elizaveta who had answered the door.

Alfred found his own eyes meeting the dark crimson ones of the man who had answered the door, and a bolt of shock cleaved down his spine. It was _him_, the person who came over and disrupted the easy, comfortable atmosphere that was a natural part of the Edelstein household. The man who had kissed Elizaveta when Mr. Edelstein wasn't home. That ash-white hair and arrogant smile — Alfred wasn't prepared to see them. He wasn't prepared for the memories they triggered.

"Hey, kid." The man lounged against the doorframe, staring at him intently in a way that made Alfred want to turn on his heel and flee. "You're a bit late today, aren't ya?" Alfred couldn't bring himself to reply. But apparently he wasn't expected to, because the raspy voice continued, "Well, Liz had'ta go out to see a friend 'cause of some emergency. She'll come back in a few hours."

"Liz?" breathed Alfred.

The man arched an eyebrow that was just as pale as his hair. "Yeah, Liz. 'S what I call her. We're pretty tight." A smirk flashed briefly across his face. "Hey, why don't you come in? It's too damn cold to be hanging around outside."

Alfred knew what curse words were — Arthur had told him very firmly a long time ago to never, ever use them — and hearing one falling from the man's mouth so casually made him extremely uncomfortable. He didn't want to go inside. He didn't want to be anywhere near this stranger.

Seeming to sense Alfred's hesitancy, the man flashed him a smile that showed off sharp, glinting eyeteeth, and said in what Alfred supposed was a coaxing voice, "C'mon, you don't wanna get sick, do ya?" He stepped aside, leaving enough room for Alfred to squeeze through. Just barely.

Still Alfred held his ground. "I . . ." He stopped, knowing how he felt, but unable to put it into words. He didn't want to go in, but he felt that making the man angry would be very bad.

Before he had a chance to make up his mind, a hand was on his wrist, manually _tugging_ him inside. The suddenness of it surprised Alfred; he could feel the man's dry, calloused skin grazing against his own and was repelled by the sensation. But he had no time to pull away, or react at all — the door had already been closed and locked behind him, and he was standing in the dimly-lit hallway, trembling. Everything in him screamed _Get out get out get out_, but Alfred was frozen to the spot. The Edelsteins' house was no longer warm and receptive and homey; it now radiated a strange, hostile aura that felt like it was swallowing up the space around him.

His head jerked up when he realized the man had been talking to him. "E-excuse me?" he said, trying to keep his voice from squeaking.

"I said, my name's Gilbert. What's yours again? Alex?"

"It's Alfred."

Gilbert grinned. Alfred tensed up even more. "Weird name you got there. You British or something? You don't have the accent."

"My mom and dad were British, and so's my brother. I was born in America." Alfred started edging backward, away from Gilbert. The man's scent — alcohol and cigarettes and leathery cologne — was too much. It was making sirens go off in his head, interrupting and erasing all of his other thoughts.

Chuckling, Gilbert leaned forward, smoothly evening out the small distance between them again. "That's cute. So you're the family brat, huh?"

Alfred didn't know what he meant. He asked, "Where's Mr. Edelstein?"

"Roddy's at a student's piano recital. Won't be back 'til two."

So it was just the two of them in that empty house. The deeply-seated fear began to climb out of Alfred's stomach and into his throat. He felt paralyzed, and his eyes settled on the studs and rings in Gilbert's right ear. They shone maliciously at him.

"You know, you're kinda nice-lookin'." And Gilbert was _right there_, pressing Alfred into the door with his presence without laying a finger on him. His breath wafted forward, slow and hot and moist. Panic flared in Alfred's head. "For a kid, I mean," Gilbert added. Then he paused and shrugged. "Heh, I've always wondered what it'd be like to kiss a kid . . . an' we've got all the time in the fuckin' world. So no harm in tryin' it out once, eh?"

Alfred wanted to scream, to throw open the door and escape before the man could touch him, but it was too late. Bony fingers had already hooked under his chin, and he found his face being yanked up to meet Gilbert's.


	5. flame

_the fifth chapter_

**flame**

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><p>Alfred twisted frantically, trying to break free of the kiss and shove the man away. But Gilbert had let go of his face in favor of catching both of Alfred's wrists in one hand. Squeezing hard enough to displace the thin, delicate bones, he slammed the boy's arms up over his head and pinned them to the back of the door.<p>

A pained yelp escaped Alfred; he couldn't help it. But the moment his lips parted, a thick, wet, _slimy_ thing pushed inside his mouth, nearly choking him. It twitched against the inside of his cheek and flicked along his teeth in a way that made Alfred shudder with disgust. "No! Stop it!"

The demand came out sounding more like a muffled plea. The foreign presence in his mouth and the rough, hot pressure on his lips disappeared as Gilbert pulled back.

"Heh, I know ya don't really mean that, kid!" he sneered. "Havin' the one an' only Gilbert Beilschmidt take your first kiss — you're one lucky lil' bastard!"

_So that's what a kiss feels like? _Alfred thought, and gagged slightly. He was having trouble seeing straight, his throat contracting again as more nausea swept over him. It felt as if too much air was getting into his lungs — or was it too little? There was too much saliva in his mouth, crowding his tongue, and it didn't seem to be his. _Nothing_ seemed to be his anymore; his body was frozen, even while he wanted to shake Gilbert off and scramble out of his reach. Maybe find a phone . . . but who would he call? Arthur? The police?

Gilbert was still talking. "Y'know, even if you _didn't_ like it, it's still your fault. Ya know why?" Without warning, he closed in for another kiss. Alfred didn't have the focus to struggle this time. The pain in his wrists was reaching an excruciating pitch — he couldn't feel his fingers anymore — and the bones were almost audibly grinding and scraping against each other under his skin. It actually hurt enough to distract him from the wet and invasive muscle flicking about his palate. He hardly noticed when Gilbert broke their mouth-to-mouth contact for the second time. And he completely missed the man's next words.

When Gilbert appeared to realize Alfred wasn't paying attention, his free hand came up and cracked across the boy's cheek, snapping his head to one side. The sound echoed sharply in the empty hallway.

"Listen when I talk, goddammit!"

Alfred let out a whimper of shock. The whole side of his face had gone numb from the vicious slap, and he tasted a trace of sour, bitter metal on his tongue. His ear rang mercilessly, his wrists throbbing in unison, tears gathering at the edges of his steadily-blurring vision. "I —" he gasped.

"No, shut the fuck up." Another swipe at his face, one that connected with equally-resounding force. Alfred's neck jerked in the opposite direction. "It's your fault because you're the one who made me do this to you. T'think that I'd wanna screw a brat like you — who would've believed it? You made me lose my fuckin' edge, kid. I've had my eye on you since the first goddamn moment I saw you almost three years ago — on you and your stupid, slutty body —"

Gilbert's mouth landed on Alfred again, this time on his neck, where his teeth sank into the tender skin at his throat. The sting acted as a trigger, a switch snapped into position. Adrenaline surging through his veins, Alfred shrieked and thrashed and fought the man as his survival instincts finally kicked in. In retaliation, Gilbert tightened his steel grip. Something near the end of Alfred's forearm popped, sickeningly close to a dislocation, and a silent scream of agony tore itself free from the boy.

He had never been so frightened — or in so much pain — in his life. His jaw unhinged and a senseless, desperate stream of words rushed forth, prompted by sheer terror. "No please no it hurts it hurts no let go please ow please let go . . ."

Suddenly there was nothing but air at his back as Gilbert wrenched him away from the door. "Will you _shut up_, you little shit?" he hissed in Alfred's ear. Alfred flinched as spittle hit his temple.

Then he was being dragged into the living room, shoved into the sofa face-first. Rough hands were at his waist, his chest, impatiently unzipping his coat and throwing it aside. Then those hands were under his shirt. His nipples were grabbed and pinched — hard. Alfred screamed, kicking his legs backward, but meeting air because Gilbert had spread them apart with his thighs. The stinging on his chest increased to an unbearable pitch as Gilbert snarled, "_Stop fucking moving_!" and twisted his fingers into Alfred's skin.

"Please stop!" the boy pleaded desperately, one last time. Gilbert grabbed the back of his head, fisting his hand harshly in the boy's blond hair, and smothered his face against a cushion. Alfred's cry was cut off.

He felt his pants being yanked down, the waistband of his boxers tugged to his knees. Cold air hit the backs of his legs and his exposed rear end, raising goosebumps along his skin. His eyelids scraping against the fabric of the cushion, Alfred squeezed his eyes shut. _He's touching me without asking_, he thought. _Arthur told me that it's bad to touch someone without their permission, because our bodies are supposed to be private. But he's touching me. Like I touched Arthur. Is this happening because I was bad? Because I hurt Arthur?_

He felt something big and hot prodding him. He felt it trying to stuff itself into a place where it wasn't supposed to go. He felt himself tearing, hurting, cracking open as Gilbert grunted and slammed him repeatedly into the cushion, still face-down, still barely unable to properly breath or see or even think. An endless while later, when Alfred was sure the sun must be sinking in the sky because it felt so cold, because it felt like _night_, the intrusion was removed and he was released.

His knees gave out. He collapsed fully onto the sofa, silent, not even a whimper welling up in his throat. There was a disgusting warmth in his backside, stinging him, trickling down between his legs, but he felt it as if from a great distance away. Was he bleeding? He didn't know; he was numb with shock and fright and something else, something that blanketed his senses with cotton and erased his thoughts as soon as they formed. There was a wet cloth wiping at him, scrubbing at his already-abused skin; then it was gone, and he was being lifted up, and the cloth was on his face now, colder than snow. Alfred opened his eyes and saw Gilbert looking back down at him with no expression at all. He realized the cloth was wrapped around a few chunks of ice — probably from the refridgerator. His cheek felt hot and swollen under the cold pressure being applied to it.

Gilbert spoke.

"This is gonna be our secret, kid," he said, and he didn't sound angry anymore. His voice was flat. "You're not gonna tell anyone, right? They'll get pissed at ya."

Alfred blinked. At him?

"Ya weren't supposed to be doin' stuff like this with a guy like me, and you'll get in trouble if ya tell 'em. I don't want you gettin' in trouble, ya hear? They'll come and take you away from your brother."

Feeling numb, Alfred kept looking up at the man. "They'll take me away from Arthur?" he asked. His voice had gone hoarse from all the yelling and crying before, and it still trembled. Gilbert nodded slightly.

"They'll lock you up. Punish you for being bad. I'm sure you don't want that, do ya, kid?"

"But . . . aren't you going to get in trouble, too?" said Alfred slowly. His jaw didn't seem to be working right, and he suddenly felt so, so tired. He was still cold.

Gilbert's look turned into a glare. "No. You're the one who made me do this, kid, remember? You're the one who's gonna pay for it. So keep your trap shut. When Liz gets back, tell her you slipped on the steps, and that's why you have a bruise on your cheek. 'Cause you landed on it. Got it? Tell that to your brother, too. Tell that to anyone who asks."

Alfred nodded.

"And remember — if they find out, they'll all hate _you_. So not a word. Not a single damn _whisper_. Oh, and don't say anything about me bein' here. Say the door was unlocked when ya came, so you just let yourself in. Don't act any different 'round Liz, either."

"Okay." It was soft, as if the brittle word would break if Alfred said it too loudly.

Gilbert stood. "I'm leavin' now. Pull your pants back up," he said. Alfred obeyed, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy as he fixed his clothing. "You watch yourself, got that? I don't wanna see you in trouble. Nice kid like you shouldn't be screwin' 'round too much." Then he walked out. Alfred heard him put what was left of the ice back in the freezer and then some crackling sounds, like he was burying the dirtied washcloth as far as he could in the trash, where it wouldn't be found. The front door swished open, then shut with a resoluteness that echoed through the house.

Alfred curled up on the sofa with limbs made of lead, pillowing his head on the same cushion his face had been shoved into earlier. _He's right . . . everything's my fault_, he thought dimly. _No wonder Arthur got mad at me this morning. He must already know that I'm a bad person, too . . . but I don't want to be taken away. . . ._ And then he couldn't think of anything else because he was falling asleep, letting the darkness claim him and settle his shaking body. The chill still hadn't gone away; it seeped under his skin and burrowed deep into his chest, right under his ribcage. And it stayed there while he slept. And he dreamed.

_Please don't let them take me away, Arthur._


	6. ashes

_the sixth chapter_

**ashes**

* * *

><p>It was nearing seven: almost time to start their lesson, like they did every evening. Arthur slid a bookmark into the novel he'd been reading, placed it on his desk, and reached for the history book on the low shelf behind him. His arms ached from lifting crates all morning, and he was tired, but his personal discomfort was no excuse to neglect Alfred's education. Not even <em>close<em> to an excuse. He was Alfred's big brother, after all. It was his responsibility to make sure Alfred received the proper upbringing that their late parents hadn't had the opportunity to provide.

His fingers paused, lingering on the book's cool, smooth spine. Originally, he'd planned to begin covering some of the more . . . _sensitive_ . . . topics tonight, instead of U.S. history, but . . .

Arthur shook his head to clear it. _It's not that Alfred isn't old enough,_ he thought. _In fact, he's right at the age when they start the sexual education classes at the public school. But that doesn't make the task any less awkward, especially when it's me who has to teach him . . ._

No matter. He'd fix his lesson plans to allow time for the subject tomorrow evening. Tonight, he was going to teach Alfred the prelude to the American Revolution, and perhaps a bit of very basic algebra. Nothing else.

He was distracted by a hollow splashing sound down the hall.

"Alfred?" When Alfred didn't answer, Arthur raised his voice. "Alfred — are you all right?" Abandoning the book in his concern for his little brother, he rose to his feet and walked into the hallway. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, a thin sheet of light slanting across the floor in front of it. Arthur pushed it open.

The boy was kneeling on the tiles, hunched over the toilet. He glanced up upon Arthur's entrance, then snapped his head back down and retched again, his shoulders trembling hard. Arthur realized what he had heard earlier was the sound of vomit hitting the inside of the toilet bowl. He immediately started forward, saying worriedly, "Alfred, why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?" When he got closer, he saw Alfred's deathly pale complexion and the sweat dampening his hair. Reaching up to stroke his back and comfort him, Arthur noticed the back of his shirt was also soaked through. A cold panic seized him the way it always did when something was wrong with Alfred. "Did you catch the flu? Was it something you ate?" _Oh, God, what if it was something I made for dinner? I know I'm not the best cook, but I'm not so horrible that my food would induce food poisoning . . . at least, I hope not . . ._

"Don't know," mumbled Alfred. He sank back onto his haunches, his head drooping. Arthur flushed the toilet for him and gently helped him to his feet, allowing the boy's warm weight to rest entirely against his side as he guided him first to the sink to rinse his mouth and brush his teeth, then to their bedroom. Once there, he coaxed Alfred into sitting down on the edge of the bed. Alfred swayed slightly, but remained upright, his white fingers curling into the sheets.

He made a gagging noise, and Arthur — thinking he was going to throw up again — instinctively cupped a hand under his chin, but Alfred merely blinked a few times before turning away. He was quivering and perspiring like he had a fever, but he didn't _feel_ warm.

"You should go to bed early," Arthur said gently.

Alfred didn't protest. Shadows flickered under his pale blue eyes, giving them the illusion of hollowness. His face was so white that the veins were visible through his paper-thin skin.

Arthur wondered what was wrong; he wondered what he could have done wrong. Actually, now that he'd thought about it, he realized Alfred had been looking unwell since he picked him up from the Edelsteins' earlier that day. Was it just a chill, a passing bout of illness, that he had caught from walking to and from their house, or had something happened?

On the outside, he was levelheaded, soothing, as he helped Alfred change into his pajamas and settled him under the covers, composed as he lay down beside to him, their bodies parallel, and gently ran his fingers through the boy's hair until Alfred was asleep. But on the inside, his thoughts were in a turmoil, running through a thousand possible explanations for Alfred's poor health, unable to satisfactorily confirm any of them.

There was a pained, uneasy line between Alfred's brows that Arthur wanted to smooth away — he had no idea that ten-year-olds could even _wear_ that kind of expression, much less a ten-year-old as carefree and innocent as Alfred — but no matter how many times he brushed the ridges of skin with his fingertips, they refused to disappear. It broke Arthur's heart.

Alfred didn't stop shaking in his sleep, even though the room wasn't the least bit cold . . . even though his small body was huddled up against his older brother's reassuring warmth.

Watching his face, Arthur thought, _Alfred, is there something you're not telling me?_


End file.
